


When The Moon Reaches For The Stars

by ValueVices



Series: Signs of Love [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon to all routes EXCEPT crimson flower, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorks in Love, Drunken Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Linhardt Dissociating, Love Confessions, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV switching back and forth, Piggyback Rides, Post-Time Skip, Return of gay big sis dorothea, Sharing a Bed, War sucks, also drunk sexy stuff, angst with eventual happy ending, demi/asexual Linhardt, haha oops, tfw you're both in love but need to resolve your trust issues, things get Spicy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-03 15:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21181379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueVices/pseuds/ValueVices
Summary: Finally reunited after five years apart, Caspar and Linhardt struggle with their feelings for each other in the face of the war.





	1. Chapter 1

If there was one thing about the war that Caspar was grateful for, it was that it brought Linhardt back to him.

It was an awful thing to think, because how many people had died for this? How many people had he killed, with his own hands? All because of Edelgard’s twisted ideals. And yet, if it weren’t for them...

Caspar would have become a knight. Or a soldier, more likely. Linhardt would have inherited his house, taken over his father’s position, gotten married. And they might have seen each other sometimes. But.

Now they had both joined the war effort, comrades in arms. And Caspar didn’t know how long it was going to last, but deep down, selfishly, he hoped it would go on forever.

The thing was, he was in love with Linhardt. It was crazy. _He_ was crazy, but it had been even crazier when he hadn’t seen Linhardt since before the war began, and was just writing him letters that he wasn’t even sure Linhardt was getting. 

And then they met again, just outside the walls of Garreg Mach, and Caspar knew the second he’d laid eyes on him that he’d do anything to never leave Linhardt’s side again. He was beautiful, like something out of a legend, pale and slender and perfect under the moonlight.

He still didn’t really know what Linhardt felt about him. He used to think, back when they were kids, that he could always tell what Linhardt was feeling. But something had changed over those five years, and now Caspar couldn’t tell at all. Linhardt seemed...distant, somehow. After their reunion at Garreg Mach, things were so hectic that Caspar barely had a chance to think about it, but after two weeks, he was starting to feel like maybe Linhardt was avoiding him. And it hurt, but...well, Caspar had already decided that he loved him, so it didn’t really matter, if he wasn’t loved back.

That’s what he told himself, anyway. 

It was during that second week after the reunion, after returning from a skirmish with some bandits, that Caspar spotted Linhardt sitting with his back to the wall outside the infirmary with his head resting against his knees, face obscured by a curtain of hair.

“Linhardt?” Caspar said, approaching him. 

Linhardt’s shoulders stiffened, and Caspar thought better of laying a hand there. Instead, he crouched down.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Blood,” muttered Linhardt, not lifting his head. “Blood and guts. Horrible.”

“Oh,” said Caspar. “Yeah.” Linhardt had stayed far away from the fighting, for all those five long years. He probably wasn’t used to it. Not that he’d ever been good with those kinds of things. 

Linhardt turned his head slightly, and Caspar caught the glimmer of his eyes behind his hair. “You’re hurt,” he said. 

Caspar lifted a hand to the bandage wrapped around his forehead, and his fingers came away wet and bloody. Whoops. “Yeah,” he said, “But it’s not too bad. Hey, if you fix me up, I’ll carry you back to your room.”

“I’m supposed to be...” Linhardt waved a hand in the direction of the infirmary.

“I dunno if you’re gonna be much help for them right now,” said Caspar. “C’mon. Go take a nap. You can always come back later.”

“...Fine,” said Linhardt. 

Caspar was heartened. Maybe he hadn’t changed so much after all, if he could be so easily persuaded with the promise of a nap. “Alright, lazybones, let’s go,” said Caspar, standing up and holding a hand out for Linhardt to take. 

“You’re the one who suggested...never mind,” sighed Linhardt, reaching for Caspar’s hand. Caspar pulled him to his feet, and just for a moment, Linhardt was in his space, close enough to breathe the same air, and Caspar was abruptly reminded that they were nearly the same height now. 

Then Linhardt pulled away, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ll carry me?” he said, not looking at Caspar. 

“Y-yeah,” said Caspar, then turned his back to Linhardt. “Here, hop on.”

It had been five years since Caspar had given Linhardt a piggyback ride, but it still felt as natural as anything. Maybe they were too old for this, but who cared? Linhardt was so quiet as they descended the stairs and started towards the dormitories that Caspar thought he might have already fallen asleep—it wouldn’t have been a stretch, for Linhardt—but then he spoke up. “How did you get hurt?”

“Huh? Oh, it was nothing. These three guys attacked me at once! I got two of ‘em good, but I kinda forgot about the third guy for a second. He didn’t last long after that, though!”

“Careless defense,” muttered Linhardt. His hair was tickling the back of Caspar’s neck. It was distracting.

“Yeah, well, I always come out on top!” said Caspar, maybe just a little louder than he’d been intending. 

“Do you, now?” said Linhardt, quietly, right in Caspar’s ear, and something about the way he said it made such a shiver go up Caspar’s spine that he almost dropped him.

“Yeah! I do!” he said. 

“Hmm. All right, then,” said Linhardt. 

They made it back to Linhardt’s room soon after that, luckily. It looked the same as it did back when they were students here: slightly dusty, and cluttered with books. Linhardt slid down from Caspar’s shoulders and immediately threw himself on the bed. Then he sat up again. “Oh, right. Your head. Come here, let me see.”

Caspar approached the bed nervously, not quite sure what he was meant to do. Sure, he’d lazed around on Linhardt’s bed tons of times...when they were kids. But it felt kind of weird to do that now. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved when Linhardt seemed to realize this and said, “Bring the chair from the desk, if you could.”

Caspar fetched the chair, brought it to the bedside, and sat in it. Linhardt swung his legs off the side of the bed, tying his hair back so that it wasn’t dangling in his face. Then he leaned forward, and _argh_, he was so close again, their knees were touching, and Caspar stared down at his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap as Linhardt unwrapped the bandages from his forehead. 

“Uh—so—what else have you been up to today?” said Caspar, blindly reaching for a conversation topic. Wow, no, that was stupid. Ugh. He hadn’t had enough normal conversations over the past five years, he was rusty. Or maybe he always had been terrible at this. But not with Linhardt. Never with Linhardt.

“Woke up. Ate. Infirmary,” said Linhardt dispassionately, examining Caspar’s head wound. Caspar was pretty sure it wasn’t that deep or anything. He had a thick skull. 

“Still as wild and crazy a guy as ever, I see,” said Caspar. He felt the warm glow of Linhardt’s magic on his forehead, and closed his eyes. “Man, that feels good.” And more than good, it felt...familiar? He hadn’t really thought about it before, but he’d been on the receiving end of plenty of magical healing over the years, and none of it felt as nice as Linhardt’s did. Maybe it was because of his Crest.

“Does it?” said Linhardt.

Caspar snuck a glance at his face, not sure what to make of his detached tone. There was a furrow in Linhardt’s brow, maybe from concentration, maybe from something else. Then it was over, and Linhardt withdrew his hand before flopping back down on the bed. “Alright. Done,” he said. 

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. Thanks,” said Caspar, feeling strangely disappointed. He hesitated, not quite willing to get up yet. “Hey, Linhardt...”

“What is it?” he asked, an arm draped over his eyes. 

“I’m just—I-I was gonna ask, uh...are you okay?”

“You already asked me that,” said Linhardt.

“Okay, yeah, but you didn’t really answer me! And I just wanna know, since you’ve been really weird since we met back up, and I—if I did something, or—“ Oh no, he couldn’t stop talking. “You know what, I’m just gonna go, it’s fine, never mind.” He was hastily getting up from his chair when Linhardt’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Caspar.” 

Caspar sucked in a breath. Linhardt was looking at him now, directly, and the cool blue-grey of his eyes made Caspar’s heart skip a beat. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t do anything. I’m just...” he waved his hand in the air vaguely, “having some trouble. Adjusting.”

“Oh,” said Caspar, relief crashing over him like a wave. “That’s, um, okay then. I can help you with that! What do you want me to do?”

“I’m not sure you can actually help me,” said Linhardt, but he had a little smile on now. It was the first time Caspar had seen him smile since they met again, and he was captivated by the sight. “But I appreciate the offer.”

Caspar had to drag his eyes away from Linhardt’s face. “Yeah, well, no problem. If you think of anything...”

“I’ll be sure to let you know right away. Now, if you don’t mind, I really would like to get to that nap.”

“R-right! Yeah. Okay. I’ll..leave you to it.” He hesitated, wanting to say more. Wanting to say, _I missed you so much_, or _I’ll tuck you in_, or...or something. It would probably sound pretty stupid if he said it out loud. He wasn’t the kind of guy who went around saying things. He was the kind of guy who went around _doing things_. Maybe not right this second. But in general.

And right now, Linhardt was looking up at him, all fey-looking and whatever with one arm languidly draped above his head and the top buttons of his shirt undone in an attractively disheveled way and ugh!! He was so damn _pretty_! Caspar backed away, determined to leave before he really made a mess of things, but he couldn’t break his gaze. 

Luckily, or unluckily maybe, he backed up straight into Linhardt’s desk, knocking over a towering stack of books, one of which toppled directly down onto Caspar’s foot. “Ow!” he yelped, hopping around on his uninjured one.

And Linhardt, the dirty traitor, didn’t even sit up to ask if he was okay. In fact, he was _laughing_.

“Hey!” said Caspar. “What’s so funny, huh? These things are a hazard! Would it kill you to clean up your room for once?”

“Your _face_,” said Linhardt, still chuckling. “Oh, that was priceless. Alas, the brave warrior, returned home from battle only to be felled by a humble tome.”__

_ __ _

_ __ _

And he looked so genuinely amused, so far removed from the exhausted huddle Caspar had found him in outside the infirmary, that he couldn’t even be mad. Not really. “Yeah well,” said Caspar, crossing his arms across his chest, hamming it up, “Wait ‘til they’re putting it on _your_ tombstone, then let’s see how you feel! _‘Here lies Linhardt, crushed under a pile of books he was too lazy to bring back to the library’._”

“It would have to be an awfully big tombstone to fit all that, don’t you think?” said Linhardt. “I’m not sure I’m nearly that important.”

“I’ll carve it myself! Just for you!” declared Caspar.

“How wonderfully romantic,” Linhardt deadpanned, then blinked a couple of times, as if he wasn’t sure of what he’d just said.

Caspar was grateful just then that the room wasn’t all that well-lit, because his face was feeling pretty warm all of a sudden. He cleared his throat. “I’m not gonna pick those up,” he said. “So just—clean up your room! And take a nap! See you later!” and then he bolted out of the room.

As soon as he was out, he headed for the training ground. He just maybe needed to hit something. Hitting something always settled his nerves. But wow. Linhardt. He was just so...so..._himself_. He was the same old insufferable, self-interested Linhardt as he always had been, and it was driving him wild, and maybe it always had. 

And just for a minute there...it was like nothing had changed. So that was good. That was something. Maybe something would be enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Linhardt had always hated fighting. People shouting, trading blows, blood being shed, lives being taken. It was all of the terrible things he could think of, all rolled into one. So ever since his days at the Officer's Academy, he had a strategy: follow Caspar.

The Professor gave them guidance, yes. They wove complex strategies and laid them out for their students to follow, directing them to be where they were needed. But there were many soldiers, and only one Professor, so it happened often enough that each of them had to make their own decisions on the battlefield.

So Linhardt developed his own strategy. It was beautiful in its simplicity—Caspar could always be counted on to be in need of healing, or somebody to fend off whatever enemy was trying to ambush him as he leapt directly into the fray, never seeming to pay attention to his surroundings, only seeing whatever was right in front of him. And he was strong, oh yes, but foolhardy nonetheless.

Especially so when the war was underway.

When they were children, it had almost been a comfort, in battle, to have this simple course of action to fall back to. Their battles were dangerous, but rarely against opponents trained well enough or in great enough numbers to pose an overwhelming threat.

Now, every battle they fought was a bloody struggle to the death, bereft of anything resembling glory. Things happened so quickly that it was difficult to even tell friend from foe, but Linhardt could always locate Caspar. Wherever the fighting was at its worst, there he would be, roaring battlecries above the melee and swinging his weapon and grinning a fearsome, bloody grin as he cut his enemies down like a reaper in a field.

It terrified Linhardt. He thought, at first, he could attribute some of his unease to Caspar’s sheer uninhibited _joy_ at the bloodshed around him, but as Linhardt grew accustomed to the sight of carnage (and oh, how he hated that he had), he was forced to re-evaluate, because if anything it frightened him even more.

What was really what he was afraid of was that Caspar might be killed.

It could happen so easily. He was careless; an enemy could slip past his guard. He always charged ahead; how simple it would be, for the enemy to overwhelm him. It haunted Linhardt in his dreams at night: finding himself adrift in the mad rush of combat, searching desperately for something that was already lost, and finding there amidst the carrion picking at the bodies of the fallen, Caspar's empty, lifeless eyes.

What a dreadful curse Linhardt was afflicted with, to be infatuated with such a man. Linhardt had pined for him rather pathetically over the five years they were apart, even mourned for him, and when they met again the small, rational part of Linhardt’s mind, underneath all the unsightly yearning, had been hoping to put the feelings to rest somehow. But then Caspar was there, as warm and bright and kind and strong as ever, and so _unjustly_ handsome that the small rational part was immediately quashed. 

There was just something so intoxicatingly good about Caspar, like a drug he couldn’t get enough of. It all would have been so much easier if he would have let Linhardt avoid him in peace, but he insisted on seeking Linhardt out whenever possible to avail himself to Linhardt with his loud and boisterous self. 

The worst part was, Linhardt was almost certain now that Caspar returned his affections. Almost certain. Something about the way his touches lingered too long, or when Linhardt caught Caspar looking at him like he had something he wanted to say, a quiet sort of desperation in his gaze. He was trying to hide it. Caspar was terrible at hiding things, but Linhardt willingly aided his deception, because it was easier that way. For both of them.

The problem was that Caspar cared too much. Linhardt wished he could hate it. But he was so often exhausted from the fighting, the horrors of war, the endless blood and hurt and death he encountered as a healer, and Caspar was always there to tell him _stay there, I’ll protect you_ in a battle, or to drag him along to the dining hall to eat, or to carry him back to his room when working at the infirmary became too much for him. 

It was an odd paradox. His worry for Caspar wore on him, and in turn it was Caspar who comforted him; but the more he did, the more Linhardt feared for losing him—even resented him for it, and it wore on him even more. It went on and on and on.

The war, of late, was seeming increasingly hopeless. They had won the last battle, but at a cost; the infirmary was crowded with the injured, and they were running low on supplies. Soon, they were told, there would be reinforcements—and with them, supplies. But soon was not now, and there was only so much magical healing that could be provided before the healers became patients themselves.

Linhardt didn’t think he’d ever been more exhausted in his life. When he was young, he would faint at the sight of blood—now, it covered his hands, his arms, his face. The smell of it in the infirmary was so overpowering he could taste it. And he didn’t feel a thing. People died under his hands, and he sat up and moved to the next bed. More injuries, more healing, until the well of magic inside himself was running thin, even with his Crest.

People dying. It didn’t mean anything to him, but he supposed it was meant to. If the Professor died, the war would be lost. The Professor mustn’t die. But if it were anybody else, everything would go on just as before, another grave filled and one mouth less to feed. Linhardt supposed he wouldn’t like it if one of his friends died—if Dorothea were to be killed, he would feel something, surely. If Petra were to die, what a shame that would be. 

It was just Caspar that he couldn’t stand the thought of losing. If Caspar were to die, he thought, Linhardt could very well go on living. But how dull the world would be. He didn’t mind dullness. He _didn’t_, until he found himself in a stupid, pointless argument with Caspar again about something he didn’t even care about very much, and found himself smiling, and couldn’t seem to stop.

Goddess, he was so tired. He found himself staring at his hands, wondering why the wound they were resting over wasn’t getting better. It took much too long to realize that there wasn’t magic coming out of them, and he focused as hard as he could—still nothing. His hands fell back into his lap. What time was it? Outside the window, the light was dimming. Dorothea and Manuela were still here, Manuela digging through the last of their supplies with a determined expression, and Dorothea singing quietly to a patient as she healed them. Mercedes was here too, patiently wringing out a cloth she was using to clean a nasty-looking wound on a woman’s shoulder.

Linhardt staggered to his feet, and moved towards the door. Nobody even glanced up. 

In the corridor, the air was blessedly cool and fresh. Linhardt closed the infirmary door behind him, and sank back against it, closing his eyes. His room seemed so far away. And it was the oddest thing. Although he was tired, he didn’t relish the idea of sleep. His dreams had been restless these past few days, and he knew that as soon as he woke he would be expected to be back at work in the infirmary, with no time to simply...rest.

He opened his eyes. Oh. Somebody was there, sitting on a bench next to the door. It was Caspar, and he was asleep, head dropped to his chest. His unexpected presence made warmth bloom in Linhardt’s chest, against his better judgement. Caspar was out of his armor, and he had a bandage wrapped haphazardly over his upper arm; probably self-administered. He looked so much smaller without his armor, more like the boy Linhardt remembered, and the thought made his heart ache. 

He was too tired for this kind of complication. He should just walk past him, and not wake him up, and go back to his room. But a baser part of him protested, craving the comfort that Caspar brought him. Wanting him close. Even just for a moment. Before he could stop himself, he was reaching out for Caspar’s shoulder, nudging it lightly. 

Caspar jolted awake suddenly, and Linhardt took a step back. Then Caspar looked around wildly, until his gaze landed on Linhardt, and then he relaxed, and smiled. “Linhardt,” he said. His smile faded quickly. _No_, Linhardt wanted to tell him. _Don’t stop_. “You look awful.”

Linhardt would have said something here, like ‘you don’t look so wonderful yourself,’ or ‘that’s awfully rude, considering it’s you’, but he found himself quite unable to conjure the effort required to speak. 

Caspar was standing up now, and it was a good thing that Linhardt was still taller than him, because he wasn’t sure if he would be able to move his head to look up. “Sorry I fell asleep, I didn’t know when you’d be finished,” said Caspar. “Looked pretty busy in there. But I waited! I figured you’d probably need me to bring you back to your room or something.”

Linhardt continued just to look at him. Maybe he was staring. But he didn’t really care, at this point. Caspar was always so...so animated. So alive. It was fascinating just to watch him. 

“So, uh...yeah. Hey, are you okay? You’re not saying anything...” 

He wasn’t standing close enough. Caspar was always so warm. Linhardt wanted to bask in it. He took a wobbly step forward, and Caspar caught him by the arms, looking concerned. 

“Linhardt? Aw, no...you really need some rest, don’t you.”

He still wasn’t close enough. But Caspar’s hands on him were steady and reassuring, and that was nice.

“Alright, c’mere,” said Caspar, pulling Linhardt towards him, and then sweeping Linhardt’s legs from under him so that he was carrying Linhardt in his arms. Linhardt closed his eyes, nestled comfortably against Caspar’s chest—he was so strong, now. And he _was_ warm, like a blanket. It felt good. It was so easy not to think of repercussions this might have. 

Caspar began walking. “You didn’t miss too much with the battle,” he said as they went. “It was a pretty rough one. Okay, I mean, obviously you knew that. But we won, so that’s the important thing! It feels like things are really starting to get somewhere with this war, you know? Finally. Oh, yeah, though, you should’ve seen it, this whole group of guys comes up, and they totally think they can take me, but I—“

Caspar kept talking, and Linhardt let it wash over him, only half-listening, but enjoying the sound of Caspar’s voice, the vibrations it made in his chest. It felt like it was much too soon when they reached his room, Caspar juggling him in his arms a little as he turned the doorknob and let them in. Then he approached the bed and carefully deposited Linhardt into sitting on the edge of it, and stood back.

Linhardt did nothing, only able to reflect dimly of his disappointment that Caspar was no longer holding him. He was still there, though, frustratingly out of reach. 

After a moment, Caspar blew out a sigh, and knelt down to start unlacing Linhardt’s shoes. “You’re _really_ out of it today...” he said, concern edging back into his voice. “Just hang on. You can go to sleep in a minute.” He wasn’t very good with fine work like this, muttering curses to himself as he tugged at Linhardt’s feet, but finally managed to get the shoes off. He stood back up again, admiring his handiwork, and then winced as his gaze swept upwards. “Ugh. You’re still all covered in...okay, hold on a minute. I’ll be right back.”

He hurried off. Linhardt’s eyes followed him to the door, and stayed stuck there, wishing for him to come back. 

He didn’t know how long it took before Caspar returned, but the grey light of twilight had almost faded when the door opened again and Caspar re-entered the room. He had a bucket with him, and paused for a moment to light the candle on the ledge by the bed. Then he dragged the chair from the desk over and placed it in front of Linhardt, sitting in it with the bucket at his feet. “Okay, I’m back,” he said, as if this weren’t incredibly obvious, but all Linhardt could feel was relief. 

Caspar seemed slightly nervous, as if he weren’t sure of what he was doing, as he bent to take a cloth from the bucket and wrung it out. The bucket was full of water, it seemed. “So, uh...I bet you do this kind of thing for people a bunch, in the infirmary...” he said, picking up one of Linhardt’s arms. He pushed back the sleeve, and with the hand holding the cloth, began to wash off the blood on Linhardt’s hands. The water was pleasantly warm, but Caspar wasn’t gentle; much of the blood was dried, and he had to scrub to get it off. “Ugh, this is harder than it looks. There’s still a bunch under your nails, too...sorry.” 

It took an enormous amount of effort for Linhardt to lift his gaze so he could see Caspar’s face, brow furrowed in concentration. He switched hands, now, dipping the cloth again and wringing it out before he set to work again. “Never thought I’d be doing something like this for _you_,” said Caspar. “You know, ‘cause, you’re always the one taking care of me.” His face did something interesting then, flushing a pleasant shade of red in the dim candlelight as he bit his lip, as if he wasn’t sure he should have said that. “N-not that I’m...look, I guess I just never really thought about it? Maybe it’s more work than I thought. So uh, I appreciate it? Thanks.” 

Linhardt would have laughed, if he could remember how to do that. And it would probably have made Caspar even more flustered. He was so adorably precious when he was flustered. 

“I’m probably not a very good nurse, huh? Maybe I’ll leave that sort of stuff up to you after all.” He finished with Linhardt’s hands, and dropped the cloth back in the bucket, replacing Linhardt’s hand into his lap. Then Caspar looked up, meeting his eyes, and half-smiled. The expression looked strange on his face. Caspar never did anything in half measures. “Oh, wait, hold on...” he said, looking more closely, “There’s still a little bit of...uh if you mind this, just, I dunno, blink a bunch or something?” He picked up the cloth again, and wrung it out. Then he leaned forward, a look of great concentration on his face as he dabbed carefully at Linhardt’s cheek. His tongue was poking out the side of his mouth. Linhardt closed his eyes. He didn’t mind being doted over like this, a distant sense of surprise accompanying this stray thought. 

“Okay,” said Caspar, a moment later. “All done. Or at least good enough, I guess. I’m not gonna bother changing your clothes.” There was a splash as he dropped the cloth back in the bucket, and Linhardt opened his eyes again. Caspar was looking at him, a peculiar mix of concern and something else in his expression. Affection, maybe. Then he sighed and shook his head, and guided Linhardt into laying down, pulling the covers up over him. He hovered by the bedside for a moment, reaching out to gently brush a lock of hair out of Linhardt’s face. “’Night, Lin,” he said softly. “Get some rest.”

He was going to leave. There was something so appalling about this thought that it galvanized Linhardt to action without conscious thought, and suddenly his hand was grasping the fabric of Caspar’s shirt. “Stay,” he said, more of a plea than a command.

Caspar’s eyes were wide, and he sucked in a breath. “Linhardt...” 

Linhardt didn’t have the energy for more words. He just knew what he wanted: Caspar beside him, warm and safe, sharing a bed like they were children again, and nothing mattered in the world. He looked up at his friend imploringly, tugging weakly at his shirt.

Caspar ran a hand through his hair roughly, looking conflicted. “A-all right. I’ll stay with you. Just, uh...scoot over, okay?”

Somehow, Linhardt managed to move over about a foot, and Caspar squeezed onto the bed next to him. He didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, laying on his back stiffly. Linhardt hummed vaguely in contentment and turned to snuggle into his side. He smelled like metal and sweat and something sharp like ginger. Something at the back of Linhardt’s mind told him this was all a terrible idea, but the voice was easily overpowered by how good it felt, to be here like this, right now. 

Caspar relaxed slightly after a few moments, hesitantly re-arranging himself to encircle Linhardt with his arms, Linhardt’s head tucked against his chest. He felt the gust of Caspar’s breath in his hair, arms tightening around him, and thought: he could spend the rest of his days like this. 

If only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny to me how much Linhardt just thinks about things compared to Caspar. His chapters are always longer...even though he literally only spoke a single word in this one??
> 
> Thanks for reading! As usual, I love to hear from you <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes are made.

Things were officially getting weird between him and Linhardt, thought Caspar. _Good_ weird, he amended quickly. Weird was good. Maybe. Probably? Gah, he didn’t know. And they had bigger things to worry about, like, you know, the whole war going on and everything.

Truthfully though, Caspar was almost as worried about Linhardt as he was about the outcome of the war. Maybe even more worried. And—well—all kinds of people were worried about the war but not that many were worried about Linhardt, so they could spare his share of the worry, right? As long as Caspar kept his head in the game when they were out there on the battlefield, it was fine. 

Things had turned around for them this month, which was a huge relief; Caspar was a strong advocate for good old fashioned violence when he was right in the thick of it, but the aftermath of fighting was way less fun to deal with, and it tended to go on for a whole lot longer. And that was the part that Linhardt had to deal with, and it was really messing him up. And maybe it was just because of him being messed up that he was being so...clingy? Needy? Whatever he was being that made him drag Caspar into bed with him from time to time, whenever the day had been particularly horrible. And then he’d go on to avoid Caspar for the next couple of days after.

So there was all that. 

This month, though, things were good. The infirmary was practically empty—of people, at least, they were swimming in supplies now—and they had reinforcements and enough food to stock the kitchen for the foreseeable future.

Which was why they were having a feast. It wasn’t on the level of a feast from their Academy days, but after five years of eating whatever he could scrounge up and then half a year of army rations, in Caspar’s opinion, it was heaven.

Also, there was a lot of booze. 

Caspar never really liked drinking that much. He’d done it a fair few times in his travels; people would offer him drinks in celebration of a battle well-fought, or in consolation for a battle _lost_, or just to be social, or...really, any old reason. Probably to take their minds off the war. Which, you know, he couldn’t really blame them. But for him, well—people always told him he was pretty funny when he drank, and maybe it was a compliment, but it didn’t feel like one. And then they’d keep buying him drinks until the night turned into a blur and all he kind of really remembered was throwing an entire table across the room before he woke up with a roaring headache and bleeding knuckles that he couldn’t remember how they got that way.

So, yeah, he didn’t really like drinking. But tonight he’d had a couple. Just to get in the spirit of things.

He’d just finished regaling a table full of soldiers about the time he’d run afoul of an Empire patrol while he was traveling alone and took them all down single-handed, and had gotten up to get another drink—he was only slurring his words a _little_ by now, he was fine—when he was unexpectedly accosted by Linhardt.

“_There_ you are,” said Linhardt. He said it kind of weirdly, too petulant, like when they were kids and Linhardt was sulking over something or other. 

“Uh, hey? Yeah, I’m here, where’ve you been all evening?” said Caspar. 

Linhardt nodded a couple of times. “Dorothea,” he said.

“I think I saw her dancing with Petra a few minutes ago,” said Caspar. “Why, are you looking for h—“

He was interrupted by Linhardt stepping into Caspar’s space, much closer than politeness dictated, and peering at Caspar’s face intently. Caspar swallowed. Linhardt’s eyes were so—so deep. And his lips were parted just slightly, looking so soft and perfect and _just right there_ and—

“Uh, L-Lin?” he stammered.

Linhardt lurched backwards a step, and Caspar automatically put out an arm to steady him, which is when he realized two things in quick succession: Linhardt was holding a half full glass of wine, and he was very, definitely, absolutely, completely drunk. “You’re cheating,” Linhardt said.

“What?” said Caspar, then shook his head to clear it. Wow. That had been close. Maybe he _had_ had too many drinks. “No, wait, listen. I need you to tell me, how many of those have you had?” he said, pointing at Linhardt’s glass.

Linhardt looked at the glass consideringly. “Maybe...three. Five. Hmm. Six.”

“What?!” yelped Caspar. “Oh no. Alright, gimme that glass, I’m cutting you off.”

“It’s mine,” said Linhardt, pulling it in closer to his body.

“Nope,” said Caspar, prying it out of his hand—it wasn’t hard, Linhardt never put up much of a fight for anything—and downed the rest of the glass, just to avoid the argument. Ugh, and this stuff was strong, too. Must have come from the monastery’s stores. 

Linhardt was pouting. “That was _mine_,” he said.

“Linhardt, you’re drunk,” said Caspar. 

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are!”

“_You’re_ drunk,” Linhardt accused, jabbing a finger in Caspar’s chest.

“I mean, yeah, a little,” said Caspar. “But you’re like, _really_ drunk. ‘S this the first time you’ve drank before?”

“No,” said Linhardt, frowning. 

His answer made Caspar’s heart hurt, for some reason. “Coulda fooled me,” he said. “Shouldn’t you know your—your uh...tolerance?” Damn, words were harder than they should be.

“Your fault,” said Linhardt moodily. “You weren’t there.”

Oh. Yeah. That was probably why it hurt. Another missed first from Linhardt’s life. It was just so easy to forget they’d spent five years apart. It hadn’t felt like it. Sure, he’d sent letters...but Linhardt could never reply to them. Probably they hadn’t meant as much to Linhardt as they did to him.  
Still, though. Caspar never would have pegged him as an argumentative drunk. It was kind of cute, in a weird, annoying way. “Look, you should pro’bly go to bed,” he said. “You wanna go to bed, right? You like sleeping.”

Linhardt stood there, swaying slightly, looking like he was trying to think of a way to refute this. 

Caspar sighed, running a hand down his face. “Here, I’ll take you,” he said, taking Linhardt’s arm. 

“To bed?” said Linhardt. There was a strange note to his voice, kind of innocently curious, but somehow it sent heat rushing to Caspar’s face.

“N-no! I’m taking you _to_ bed,” he clarified quickly, “Not to _bed_.” 

Linhardt’s face screwed up like he was trying to make sense of this. Caspar wasn’t even really sure it made sense to himself, but oh well. He tugged Linhardt’s arm, and Linhardt started moving, so it didn’t really matter.

There weren’t many people out and about on the way to Linhardt’s room; most of them were still at the dining hall, or in the reception hall, where some people had started dancing. It wasn’t exactly the kind of fancy waltzes they’d practiced in their Academy days, but Caspar was still glad for any chance to steer clear of it. Him and dancing didn’t exactly mix well. He’d been sort of, at the back of his mind, entertaining the notion of asking Linhardt to dance anyway, but...he probably wouldn’t have gone through with it.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep yet,” Caspar said, noticing Linhardt’s eyes starting to drift shut. He was wobbling along, clinging to Caspar’s arm to keep him upright. Ugh, maybe it would have been faster if he’d carried him. Except Caspar wasn’t sure _he_ could manage that level of coordination either.

“’m not asleep,” mumbled Linhardt snappishly, then sighed and nuzzled his face against Caspar’s arm. “You’re warm...”

Oh no. Oh, Goddess. Linhardt only ever got—cuddly—like this when he was exhausted out of his mind. Caspar didn’t know if he could handle it right now. He might do something stupid. And then Linhardt would probably never talk to him again. He forged ahead, steadfastly keeping his gaze forward. “Uh, yeah I’m just! The same temperature as usul...ususal—always!”

Finally, they arrived. Caspar opened the door to Linhardt’s room and guided him inside. He’d spent a lot of time of in this room over the years, but this was the first time Caspar felt...well, nervous, about being inside. 

He just—really wanted to kiss Linhardt. A lot. More than usual, and usual was basically all the time. They were both drunk, and Linhardt was—he might—he might not even remember it, so—no, no, no. Nope. He wasn’t doing that. He couldn’t. Linhardt would _hate_ him for it. When he was sober, anyways. It would be better for Caspar to just leave right now, and not even take a step into the room.

Which is what he was thinking, but Linhardt wouldn’t let go of his arm. 

“We’re here so—I’m go,” said Caspar, words tripping out of his mouth in a garbled mess. “I mean—I’m just—you can sleep. In bed.” He tried to pull away, but Linhardt was looking at him now, a little frown of disappointment creasing his face, and Caspar stopped. 

“You can’t leave,” said Linhardt. 

“Yeah...” Caspar agreed, weakly. He really couldn’t. Not when Linhardt was looking at him like that. Like he was a pinned butterfly. There was purpose behind the drunken haze in Linhardt’s eyes, and it swept away Caspar’s entire world except for Linhardt’s gaze, and the points of heat where their bodies were touching. 

Linhardt pulled Caspar towards the bed. He followed. 

And Linhardt was pushing him, so that he fell to the bed, staring up in terrified, electrified anticipation, watching Linhardt strip off his outer robe and cast it aside, start undoing the buttons of his shirt and giving up after three. The sight of the pale white strip of skin this exposed sent a fire flashing through Caspar so hot he didn’t know how his body contained it. 

Then Linhardt crawled onto the bed. Not just onto the bed. On top of Caspar. Straddling his hips, leaning forward so that his face hovered above Caspar’s, loose hair hanging down, tantalizingly out of reach.

“Linhardt...” Caspar breathed, paralyzed under Linhardt’s intense gaze. Possessive. Like Linhardt was sizing him up, deciding what to do with him. 

“Mmm?” said Linhardt, one hand splaying across Caspar’s chest, the other supporting Linhardt’s weight next to Caspar’s head, boxing him in. Caspar’s hands moved of their own accord, framing Linhardt’s narrow chest. He could feel him breathing.

A warning buzzed in the back of Caspar’s mind, but any attempt to gather his thoughts was in vain. “I—” he started, but then Linhardt was leaning down, and whatever he was going to say was lost in the oblivion of Linhardt kissing him. 

Somehow, it was surprising—he’d imagined it a million times, but the reality was different and better, Linhardt’s lips soft against his but unyielding, demanding—and Caspar let him take what he wanted, until he was pushing back, suddenly, and he’d never imagined them kissing like a battle between them, but that’s what it was like and it was _good_. When Linhardt pulled back they were both breathing hard, the same air, and Caspar didn’t know what his eyes were like but Linhardt’s were bright with something raw and ragged-edged. Then they were kissing again, Linhardt’s hand cupping Caspar’s face as their lips moved together, a note of pleasure humming in Linhardt’s throat when Caspar parted his to let Linhardt’s tongue slide in, and the sound sent another wave of burning fire through him, suddenly acutely aware of Linhardt’s hips straddling his, the way Linhardt’s smallest movement sent waves of pleasure crashing through him. 

“Lin,” he moaned into the kiss, his hips twitching helplessly, craving that friction. 

Linhardt responded, his lips leaving Caspar’s only to trail down the corner of his jaw to his neck—_Sothis_, even his dreams couldn’t have conjured this, what it was like for Linhardt to be grinding down on his crotch while his kiss-swollen mouth sucked at the skin at Caspar’s throat—Caspar whimpered with sheer pleasure, feeling the growing hardness in Linhardt’s pants rub against his own. His hips bucked up, and Linhardt gasped as they rutted against each other, clumsy and desperate, Caspar’s hands pawing at Linhardt’s clothes until they were under his shirt, exploring the ridges of his ribs, the smooth flat expanse of his stomach, and Linhardt making little keening sounds with his face tucked against Caspar’s neck, hands bunched in the fabric of his shirt. 

Then Linhardt called his name, breathy and full of need, and it was this that sent Caspar over the edge, lost to a surge of rapture so overwhelming it blotted out his vision.

When he came back to himself, his body felt so heavy with bliss he wasn’t sure he could move—but maybe half of it was the weight of Linhardt. It took him a moment to piece together any kind of coherent thought, through the contentment and drunkenness. What he finally _did_ notice was Linhardt, still hard, squirming needfully on top of him. 

Caspar froze for a moment, not sure how to proceed. But he couldn’t do nothing—he just _couldn’t_, it would be wrong, wouldn’t it? And he wanted to make Linhardt feel good. Like he did for Caspar. It might be his only chance—and that decided it. “Lemme take care of you,” he murmured, hand slowly tracing down Linhardt’s side, hesitating at the waist of his pants. Linhardt lifted his hips eagerly at Caspar’s touch, an invitation for Caspar’s hand to slide inside, touching him, stroking him; Linhardt whined, shuddering and bucking into Caspar’s hand, and it wasn’t long before he finished too, pressing his face into Caspar’s shoulder and letting out a muffled cry. Then he went limp, sandwiching Caspar between himself and the bed. 

Caspar loosely wrapped his arms around Linhardt, rubbing in small circles on his back as his mind struggled to grasp the enormity of what had just happened. Linhardt seemed to be falling asleep already, all of his energy expended on...

Goddess. He’d just—they’d just—he’d—with _Linhardt_, and so maybe he was pathetically easy but it was incredible, and now—he didn’t know. Should he have stopped him? Would Linhardt remember in the morning? Maybe he wouldn’t. Would that be better, or worse? 

Better. Definitely better.

But—somehow, Caspar hated that idea too. If Linhardt found him here in the morning, hungover and with both of them a mess in his bed, there was no telling what he’d do. So Caspar couldn’t be here in the morning, no matter what. Not to mention he ought to get himself cleaned up.

Just right now, though, the man he loved was asleep on top of him with Caspar’s arms around him, and Caspar was drunk enough not to care about everything else. Just for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never publicly posted anything remotely spicy in my life, I can't believe these boys brought me here smdh
> 
> Please excuse me for everything, thanks, and also thanks for reading, you're a champ


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caspar has a close call.

The battlefield was chaos. 

Everywhere Linhardt looked was a fresh hell of violence and horror—corpses littering the ground, impossible to discern from those still living, blood running in the dirt like water. The battle was over, he’d been told, a ragged cheer having risen across the battlefield from their soldiers as the word spread, but Linhardt took no joy from it.

He had lost track of Caspar. 

He wasn’t sure how it had happened, exactly; the battle had been hard-won, perhaps their bloodiest to date, and somewhere in between keeping his soldiers on their feet and following the Professor’s commands, Caspar had vanished into the melee, lost to Linhardt’s sight. He had ordered his troops to begin assisting the wounded, in the aftermath. There was work to be done, after all. But when he saw Caspar’s unit return to camp without their commander...

Something broke inside of him.

And now here he was, desperately searching the battlefield, stumbling through a field of broken bodies, some still weakly crying out for aid. He barely even noticed, eyes flickering from one horror to the next, searching for any clue, anything—a shock of blue hair, the familiar sheen of Caspar’s armor. 

The sky was dark with clouds. If he didn’t hurry, it would begin to storm. And Caspar hated the rain. He needed to find him quickly.

“Lin! Linhardt!” Somebody was calling his name. But it wasn’t Caspar. He ignored it. “Lin, wait!” 

They caught up, tugging at his arm. Dorothea. “Lin. What are you doing out here? Everybody’s back at camp, you have to come help—“

“Caspar,” said Linhardt, not looking at her, pulling his arm away. “He—“ his throat stuck on the words.

“Caspar? I saw his troops back at...wait, he wasn’t with them?”

Linhardt shook his head, wordlessly.

“Oh...oh, Lin...” said Dorothea, shock and pity wavering her voice. He didn’t have time for such sentiments.

“I’ll find him,” he said.

“But—what if he’s—” 

Now, finally, Linhardt looked at her, and she flinched back from his gaze. “Help me or go,” he said. In the back of his mind he catalogued the stains on her dress, the grime smeared on her face. She was exhausted. Maybe he should have cared. But he didn’t.

“I...I’ll help,” she said. 

He nodded once, and resumed searching. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks ago, they’d been having a feast. Linhardt had never been partial to celebrations; too many people, too much noise, and a dreadful glut of social expectations.

He’d only bothered attending this one because he’d been pestered so many times by Caspar and Dorothea that it became more of a bother to refuse. At least, up until he got there. Eventually he’d managed to extricate himself from the merry-making, and found himself sitting with a glass of wine at a table, Dorothea sitting across from him.

“You know, I saw something funny the other day,” she'd said playfully, leaning across the table. “Care to guess what it was?”

“Not particularly,” said Linhardt. “I find guessing games rather tiresome.”

“You’re no fun at all,” said Dorothea, looking no less gleeful. “Well then, I suppose I'll just have to tell you. I spotted Caspar coming out of your room in the morning.”

Linhardt froze, then quickly composed himself. “Did you now?”

“Mm-hmm. Pretty interesting, don’t you think? I wonder what he could have been doing there…”

“It's not like that,” muttered Linhardt, embarrassed, along with a pang of familiar misery.

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “Then what is it like, Lin? Tell me. I really would like to know.”

For some reason, Linhardt felt like he was ten years old again, standing in his father’s study, having to defend himself. He hated it. “He sleeps there sometimes. That's all. There's nothing between us.”

Now incredulity was creeping over Dorothea’s face. “You can't be serious, Lin. He's hopelessly in love with you—even I can tell. And you were pining after him all through those days at the Academy.”

“Things change,” he said, more coldly than he intended. “And I don't see how it’s any of your business.”

“I'm your friend! And Caspar’s friend, too,” she countered. “Just talk to me. Tell me what's going on with you two. You've been acting terribly odd for a pair who aren’t…together.”

Discomfort squirmed in Linhardt's stomach. He didn’t want to talk about this. But the unhappiness that had been weighing him down these past weeks was only getting heavier. It seemed too much for one person to carry. “You can't tell anything to Caspar,” he said.

“I won’t.”

Linhardt nodded, then took a deep breath. “I...still have feelings for him.” Distantly, he noted that his heart was beating too quickly. Was this the first time he had said it out loud? It must have been. More than five years, and he'd never said it aloud. How absurd.

Dorothea reached across the table and laid her hand over his, which is when he realized he was looking away from her. He forced himself to make eye contact, and found her smiling at him kindly. He continued.

“I believe he may have—” he hesitated, “feelings for me as well. I'm not sure since when.”

“But…?” Dorothea prompted.

Linhardt grimaced. This was even more difficult than he had anticipated. But, well, he’d already started. “I've told you before. I spend all of my time running from things that trouble me.”

Dorothea shook her head, expression fond but exasperated. “Yes, I remember. Don’t tell me even love is too much trouble for you, Lin.”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

“He might...” Linhardt struggled with the words, “Die.”

“_All_ of us might die, Lin.”

“I know,” said Linhardt. “But it’s Caspar.”

Dorothea held his gaze for a moment before looking away. She sat back, removing her hand from Linhardt’s. “...I know.” Her gaze drifted across the room, and Linhardt followed it. Petra was there across the room, laughing at something Ferdinand said. Dorothea sighed. “I probably shouldn’t be lecturing you about this.”

“Are you two...?” said Linhardt. He honestly wasn’t sure. Dorothea and Petra had always seemed close, unusually affectionate with each other, but he’d never felt the urge to pry.

“I don’t know,” said Dorothea. “She’s invited me to come to Brigid, after the war’s over, but...” she gave a subdued chuckle. “I suppose it never feels like the right time to—to really talk.”

“You’re right,” said Linhardt.

“Huh?” she looked back to him, surprised.

“You really shouldn’t be lecturing me about this.”

She blinked a couple of times, and then burst out laughing—and here was a glimpse of the old Dorothea, before the war took its toll. It kindled a flame in Linhardt’s heart that he’d long thought burnt out: hope. When she finished laughing, she shook her head. “Do you know what I said to Caspar, once? He was cheering me on about finding my ‘special someone’. I told him, if I never found them, well, I could see myself settling down with him.”

Linhardt sat up straighter. “He never told me that,” he said.

She smiled ruefully. “We did end up making a promise,” she said. “But he said he couldn’t believe it, that I wouldn’t find somebody.”

“I agree; you could do a great deal better,” said Linhardt, frowning.

She laughed again. “Jealous, Lin? He really is just the sweetest, isn’t he. When I was younger, I never would have thought a noble could be so...” she gestured uselessly. “So _Caspar_.”

This time, Linhardt laughed too. “Yes. I...think I love him, Dorothea.”

“You should tell him that,” she said. 

“Will you tell Petra?”

She hesitated. “It’s just so hard to—maybe, after the war is over. They say it’ll be soon, so...”

“After the war,” Linhardt echoed, then nodded. “Well, perhaps we should make a promise of our own, then.”

Dorothea met his eyes, then smiled, and raised her glass. “A promise it is. Here’s to love, and times of peace to enjoy it in.”

Linhardt raised his glass in kind. “Agreed,” he said, then drank.

And he’d felt so heady, then, so strange and light and free, to have finally spoken the words aloud. It made him a little giddy, a little afraid, a little reckless—and he’d drank and kept on drinking until he woke up in his bed with a terrible headache, a terrible mess, and the feeling he’d done something he couldn’t undo. 

But he couldn’t remember, no matter how desperately he tried to piece together the fragments of his memory—he drank, and then Caspar was there, and...and what? He was afraid to find out.

And Caspar was avoiding him. It should have been fine, he spent enough time avoiding Caspar on his own, but...he’d never felt so wretched, being on the receiving end.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rain was falling, now.

Linhardt and Dorothea been searching for what felt like forever, and it felt like a betrayal somehow, those first few drops of water from the sky. It couldn’t rain yet, thought Linhardt desperately, it just _couldn’t_, he had to find Caspar first and then it could rain all it damn well pleased. 

He’d been heading towards where he’d seen Caspar last, at first, but they’d passed that point some time ago, with no sign of him. Medics were beginning to comb the field, but they were too far behind, and moving slowly.

“Lin...” called Dorothea to him, and the hesitation in her voice told him exactly what she was going to say. “We should go back.”

“No,” he said shortly, not even looking at her. The sea of corpses swam before him, the faces blending into each other, unfamiliar and unrecognizable. 

“I know you’re—“ she paused, started again, more gently. “If he’s out there, they’ll find him. And he could be...he could just be lost, or maybe he made it back to camp by himself, or...”

Linhardt had always liked taking the easy way out. And he always did, if the opportunity presented itself, only truly exerting himself if there was no other option. But this time, he couldn’t. There was only one path he could bear to take. “If you won’t help me, I’ll find him myself.”

“You’ll get sick running around in the rain like this,” she said. “And then you won’t be of any help to anyone.”

“There’s only one person I ever cared to be any help to in this war,” he snapped, selfishly, because it was hitting him now, how senseless would it be to have endured this monstrous war, all for nothing but a hollow victory and the broken pieces of his heart.

“I want to find him too,” she said. “_Believe_ me, Lin, I do, but...“

And then she trailed off, because Linhardt had stopped suddenly. Up ahead, he’d spotted something. A familiar shade of blue, amidst the carnage. He barely registered the time it took to get from here to there, heedless of the mud soaking into his robe as he arrived at the body’s side and dropped to his knees.

It was him. _Caspar_. Relief and terror clashed in Linhardt’s chest as he took in Caspar’s condition: his eyes were closed, unconscious; skin pale; he had multiple arrows sticking out of him, side, shoulder, and two in a leg; his breastplate was smashed open, a huge gash running diagonally down it and the skin underneath; he had slashing wounds all over his arms, and blood dried in streaks down his face. “Caspar,” said Linhardt, barely able to get his name out past the constriction in his chest. There was no response. Linhardt’s world collapsed down to the razor edge of a knife as he felt desperately for Caspar’s pulse, something that would prove he was still here, that he hadn’t left Linhardt behind.

He was cold. Cold and pallid and lifeless, but something held Linhardt there, some wild and anguished hope, and—

There. Faintly, weakly, but there it was, and there it was _again_, the unmistakable sign of life. Linhardt nearly wept with relief. 

“Is he...?” Dorothea asked tremulously. Linhardt didn’t know when she had arrived, but there she was, standing behind him.

“He’s alive,” said Linhardt, then repeated it, because he could hardly believe it. “He’s _alive_.”

“Oh, thank the Goddess,” said Dorothea, then joined Linhardt in the mud, quickly assessing Caspar’s condition. “We’ll need to help him right away, he looks _terrible_...he must have fought all these soldiers, all by himself.”

Linhardt was only half-listening, already examining Caspar’s head wound. “Start on his chest,” he said, slipping into his clinical mode; what mattered now was healing Caspar, not letting him slip away into the darkness. He reached into his well of magic; he had to dip deep in order to find it, he was so exhausted from the battle, but he had to. 

Dorothea had already begun summoning her magic. “Some of his ribs might be broken,” she said. “We’ll have to be careful moving him. And his left hand definitely is broken. Maybe the arm. It looks like he was fighting unarmed, at the end.”

Of course he had been. Linhardt could picture it easily enough, Caspar, alone on the battlefield and surrounded by enemies. He’d probably enjoyed it, the witless fool, fighting like a mad dog as the enemy closed in around him, tossing aside his broken weapon and taking them head on, as if he had nothing to lose.

How could he fight like that? How could he simply not care if he were to come out the other side? Nothing frightened Linhardt more than the idea of a world without Caspar in it, and here Caspar was, willing to throw it all away for...he didn’t know. He didn’t _understand_. 

But right now, it didn’t matter. Healing magic poured from Linhardt’s hands, bleeding out of him and into Caspar, the pale light gathering in his wounds and coaxing them to mend. How many times had Linhardt done this? How many times would he have to do it again? He hated to think of it. This was _why_ he couldn’t tell Caspar he loved him, this terrible despair he subjected himself to, over and over.

Then Caspar’s eyelids fluttered, and he let out a soft groan as they flickered open. “Lin...?”

And Linhardt’s heart leapt in his chest, all despair forgotten for that single blessed moment. “Caspar,” he said.

“You came...” There was wonder in Caspar’s voice, weak as it was.

“Yes,” said Linhardt, and he wanted to say more, to berate him for his recklessness, to lecture him for letting himself be so grieviously hurt, but he couldn’t manage more than that one word.

Caspar’s arm twitched, as if he meant to move it, but couldn’t muster up the strength. “Hey, don’t cry,” he said. “It’s okay.”

“I’m not crying,” said Linhardt, only to realize, to his surprise, that some of the raindrops running down his face were warm. 

“Caspar, you’re very hurt,” said Dorothea. “You should rest.”

“Doro...thea? What’re you...”

“We came to find you,” she said.

“Didn’t have to...t’do that,” said Caspar. “’m fine.”

Linhardt laughed through his tears, a little hysterically, because _really_, that was so like him. “You could have died,” he said.

“Nah,” said Caspar. “Wouldn’t do that t’you.”

Then his eyes slid closed again.

And Linhardt laughed again, half sobbing, because it wasn’t _fair_ how Caspar could do these things to his heart, to make him want to believe the things he said. 

“...We should get him back to camp,” said Dorothea, a few moments later, when their magic had run dry. “And you should take a bath, Lin. You look awful.”

“I will. Thank you,” he said, suddenly feeling exhausted. And cold, and wet, and filthy. He let Dorothea pull him to his feet, and together, they managed to prop Caspar up between them. He was heavy, and the mud pulled at their feet as they began to drag him back towards camp. 

Caspar was alive. For another day, for another battle. But it had been close—the pieces of Linhardt’s heart that he’d already stolen away had almost been lost forever. He couldn’t be trusted with the rest of them. 

So Linhardt wouldn’t tell him. Not until the war was over. 

If they survived to see the end of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole story is a treatise on how not talking about your relationship problems usually makes them significantly worse. Unfortunately nobody has learned this yet.
> 
> Thanks for reading, gang, I appreciate your support :D


	5. Fin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night before the battle at Enbarr, and Caspar can't sleep.

Tomorrow was the big day.

The huge day. The good-job-everybody-we-did-it-the-war’s-over! day. They were going to march on Enbarr.

And Caspar couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t up late very often; he was an early riser, and he pretty much always managed to tire himself out one way or another before the end of the day. He never even had that much trouble sleeping before a big battle usually; he always wanted to be as well-rested as possible. But tonight, he’d spent three whole hours staring up at the roof of his tent, feeling as though a whole hive of bees were loose in his blood.

It wasn’t even about the upcoming battle. It was about Linhardt. When the war was over...what was he going to do? Would he go back to his family? Would he find somebody to marry? Somebody who wasn’t Caspar?

As things were, Caspar knew how things stood between them. More or less. He thought. Okay, so maybe he had no idea, but at least as long as the war was ongoing, he had an idea of where he could reasonably expect Linhardt to be, or what he would be doing.

After the war, all bets were off.

Caspar knew that Linhardt wasn’t in his tent, because it was nearby, and he hadn’t heard him come in. So that meant he was still up. And he shouldn’t be, because it was late, and they all needed rest before tomorrow, so actually, Caspar would be doing everybody a favor by going to check on him. So yeah, he had an actual, legitimate reason for tracking down Linhardt it the dead of night, he wasn’t _just_ doing it because he wanted to talk to him.

He _needed_ to talk to him. He needed to tell him. He’d been putting it off, because, well, the war, and everything, and—who was he kidding. He was just scared of what Linhardt was going to say. If he was...

If he was going to leave him again.

It was impossible to tell what Linhardt was thinking. He seemed to change his mind all the time, sometimes avoiding Caspar like the plague, and sometimes—he’d _cried_ over Caspar in that last battle, and Linhardt never cried, so maybe Caspar had just dreamed that in some kind of near-death daze. But it felt real. But he _hadn’t_ dreamed that other time, no matter how much he wished he had. The time when a drunken Linhardt had dragged him into his bed and...ugh. Every time he thought about it, he felt awful. He should have known better. He was a terrible friend. Linhardt didn’t even remember, or he was pretending not to. Caspar didn’t know which was worse.

So...what did it all mean? Damned if Caspar knew, but it was eating him up inside. Everything was going to change again soon, and he’d put it off for long enough. He was Caspar von Bergliez, for the goddess’ sake! He didn’t dance around things! He just charged in and did his thing and...usually made a mess. But it was the only way he knew how to do anything, so he was just going to have to get in there and get it over with. Yeah.

And that’s how he found himself heading for the supply tents at this unholy hour of the night, because it was the most likely place for Linhardt to be found. Sure enough, as he drew near, he saw the telltale glow of a lantern coming from one on the left of the row. Heart pounding, Caspar approached the tent, refusing to let his steps slow. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but it was too late to back out now. This was happening. For better or for worse. If Linhardt was—if he wasn’t—if he _didn’t_...well, at least then he’d know, right? And that was better than not knowing. It had to be.

“Linhardt—“ he blurted out, as soon as he stepped foot in the tent, and then stopped, mind and body both screeching to a halt, because Linhardt was there, sorting through a box of bandages with a little frown of concentration, and even though he looked all worn-down and faded, he was beautiful. Caspar didn’t even know if you were supposed to describe a man as beautiful, but well, he _was_.

Linhardt looked up at him. “Caspar. What are you doing up at this hour? Don’t tell me you’ve come to tell me to go to bed.”

Caspar felt like his heart was going to hammer out of his chest. “N-no! I mean, yeah.You should be—you need sleep. Or you’re going to be tired tomorrow!”

“I was planning on napping while the troops were being rallied,” said Linhardt, a furrow appearing in his brow. “What’s the matter with you? You’re acting oddly.”

“No I’m not!” said Caspar quickly. “I’m just...” damn, okay, he didn’t know how to finish that. There was only one thing to do; he crossed the floor of the tent in four big strides, to where the bewildered Linhardt had turned to face him, and took his hands. He looked into Linhardt’s eyes beseechingly, and said, “I’m really in love with you.”

The words were out there in the world, hanging in the air, painfully and desperately true. Linhardt’s eyes widened in surprise, and then—

And then he turned away, his hands sliding from Caspar’s grasp like water, turning his back, and it was just like that time, when the war dawned and put five years of distance between them. All with a simple _no_ from Linhardt. “We can’t do this now,” said Linhardt, without facing Caspar. His shoulders were hunched in, arms drawn close to his body defensively.

It was hard to hear past the roaring in Caspar’s ears. His hands stayed frozen where they were, palms up, extended out towards Linhardt. “Okay,” he heard himself say, then stumbled back a step, lurched into a turn, and found himself moving. Quickly.

“Caspar,” he heard Linhardt call after him, as he reached the outside of the tent and kept going, not sure where he was going as long as it was somewhere. “Caspar! Wait!”

He couldn’t wait. He just had to—if he could just get somewhere, _away_, he could—everything would be fine, this was fine, if he could just take some deep breaths and if his eyes would stop burning, he could...he could...

He passed the edge of the camp in an all-out run, vision blurring with tears, and wasn’t that stupid? What was he even crying over, did he ever really think that Linhardt would...that he might...after everything they’d been through—

And that was as far as his thoughts got, because just then he hit the edge of a ravine, hidden in the dark, and pitched face-first down the slope. The world spun around him, wildly out of control, as he rolled down the slope, barely able to pull his arms up to protect his head, slamming into rocks, scraped by branches and brambles until finally he came to a stop, flat on his back. It didn’t feel like he’d broken anything, but that was a cold comfort.

He was sore all over, dizzy, and no less miserable than he had been before falling. Letting an arm fall across his eyes, he felt the dampness of his tears there and he almost could have laughed. Wow. He really did make a mess of things. He should have known. And now, here he was, at the bottom of a ravine at some stupid hour of the night, the night before the deciding battle in a nearly six year war. He was such an idiot. And that shouldn’t have even been news! He’d always been an idiot. But he’d kinda hoped, maybe, for once...

His morose thoughts were interrupted by the sound of something crashing through the trees towards him. Down the slope. It had to be a person; no wild animal would make that kind of noise. He wished it could be an animal, though. He just...didn’t want to deal with anybody right now.

“Caspar?” called Linhardt, and Caspar squeezed his eyes shut. Of course it was him. This was the worst possible thing that could have happened. Well, okay, probably not _the worst_, but it was pretty high up there. He didn’t respond. Maybe Linhardt would give up and go away.

Unfortunately, the sound of him moving around got closer. Ugh, right, he probably had a magic light. Then, from very nearby, he heard a sharp intake of breath, and the sound of somebody dropping to the ground beside him. “Are you all right?” said Linhardt urgently.

“Great,” he said, without moving an inch. And despite his response, he felt healing magic wash over him, directionless but seeking out the places where it hurt and pooling there, soothing his bruises.

Linhardt didn’t speak for a few moments, which suited Caspar just fine. Then the healing magic receded, and Linhardt shifted. “I didn’t mean to—” he started.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Caspar roughly, cutting him off. “Just forget it. I’ll leave you alone.”

“No,” said Linhardt. “You don’t understand.”

“Pretty sure I do,” said Caspar, hating how rough his voice sounded. “You made it pretty damn clear, Linhardt!”

Linhardt sighed. “Caspar. I...I wanted to wait until the war was over to tell you.”

“That you didn’t want me around?”

“That I loved you.”

There was a moment of complete silence. And then Caspar sat up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. “What?!”

Linhardt was kneeling next to him, hands in his lap, looking off to the side. His expression was barely visible in the dim light of the moon, but he looked...apprehensive. Caspar felt like the moment when he spoke again couldn’t come fast enough, but all he did was hunch his shoulders in miserably.

“Linhardt—what are you—what do you—I don’t—“ Caspar couldn’t even finish a sentence before the next one started, the words pouring out of him in a confused jumble. “I don’t understand,” he finally managed. He wanted to reach out to Linhardt, as if that simple contact could answer his questions, but if Linhardt pulled away from him again he didn’t know if he could take it.

“I love you,” said Linhardt, as if it pained him to admit it. “It’s just...”

“It’s just what?” demanded Caspar. “I’m not—good enough? I’m not smart enough, or something?”

Linhardt’s gaze whipped back towards him. “What? Why on earth would you think—”

“Because I get it! I’m not the kind of guy you could be interested in like that! Not really.” And now he was the one looking away, jaw set against the enormity of the feelings surging inside of him, the miserable heap of doubts that had been piling up in a corner of his mind, all this time.

Then there was a hand on his arm, and when he looked back in surprise, Linhardt’s face was close to his own, and then Linhardt’s lips were on his, and Caspar froze. The kiss was chaste and fleeting, yet somehow much more intimate than the drunken one they’d shared once before.

When Linhardt pulled back, he had the kind of look on his face like he wasn’t sure what he’d just done. But he didn’t take his hand off of Caspar’s arm.  
“Lin...” said Caspar, completely dumbfounded.

“Don’t say things like that,” said Linhardt quietly. “About yourself. It’s the opposite; I don’t deserve you.”

This snapped Caspar back to attention. “What are you talking about? You’re the smart one, and you’re good at healing people...you’re just so good at everything you barely even have to try, and I’m...all I’m good at is fighting.”

“You’re good at taking care of me,” said Linhardt.

“Yeah, but I’m not!”

Linhardt shook his head. “...Are you really going to argue with me about this?”

“Yeah, I am! You don’t know what I—” Caspar swallowed, but it was too late now. “You don’t know what I did. Do you?”

“What do you mean?” Linhardt said.

“I mean…” There was a maelstrom of emotions surging inside of Caspar—astonishment, hope, joy—but underneath it all, the guilt was there, like poison in a well. “That night. At the feast. You…really don’t remember anything?”

“Oh,” said Linhardt. He looked faintly ill, now. “So something did happen.”

“You probably shouldn’t even want me around,” said Caspar. “I totally took advantage of you when you were…y-you’d been drinking a lot, so you obviously weren’t thinking…and then I didn’t even tell you! I’m the worst!”

”Tell me what happened,” said Linhardt, expression unreadable. He hadn’t recoiled away, like Caspar had expected. Maybe he was too angry for even that. “What did I do?”

“I…I ran into you in the dining hall,” said Caspar. “You were really drunk, like falling-down drunk. So I was just gonna bring you back to your room. But when we got there…” he could feel his face flushing, with shame and embarrassment. “You didn’t want me to go. And I should have said no—I should have just _left_, but I was drunk too, and I didn’t, and I let you—we were on the bed, and you were—we—”

“Caspar,” Linhardt interrupted. “_What happened._”

“We were kissing,” said Caspar, the words tumbling out of him now, “And you were on top of me and—” he didn’t even have the words to describe it, the feeling of their bodies moving against each other, how good it felt in the moment. “We were…_moving_ together, and…we still had our clothes on and everything but I kind of—I-I touched you...”

The silence was heavy. “I see,” Linhardt said, eventually.

“I’m sorry,” Caspar said. “I know I messed up, if you don’t want me around I—”

“Stop,” said Linhardt.

Caspar stopped. Linhardt was staring straight ahead, mouth set in an unhappy line.

“I…haven’t been fair to you,” said Linhardt.

“What? How is _that_ the takeaway here?” said Caspar, once again completely thrown for a loop.

“I…” Linhardt started, then sighed. “I spoke with Dorothea that evening. About you. About—you and I. I should have known better than to keep drinking after that. I never told you this, but…before we came back to the monastery, I was seeing somebody.”

“Oh,” said Caspar. He felt a stab of hurt, even though…well, it was Linhardt’s business, he could do whatever he…

“I didn’t love him,” said Linhardt hurriedly, spots of colour appearing in his pale cheeks. “I missed you, Caspar, desperately, and I thought I could…satisfy myself, through some other means. But I couldn’t. I used to drink heavily, and…” the colour deepened. “I’m sure you have an idea.”

“Y-you missed me?” said Caspar. Everything else—he could hardly even think about that right now. It was too much.

Linhardt chuckled weakly. “Yes, I did. Very much.”

“But…” Caspar struggled to gather his thoughts. “That doesn’t have anything to do with…with what I did, and—”

“I suspect that I should be the one apologizing to you, truthfully,” said Linhardt.

Caspar shook his head. “You were drunk!”

“That hardly excuses me.”

“B-but! I enjoyed it, so—”

“…I imagine I did as well.” He frowned. “I am sorry. Truly. I behaved…irresponsibly.”

Caspar wished everything could just slow down, so he could process all of this. His head felt like it was going to explode. “Ugh, no, you can’t just go and apologize! I felt bad about this for weeks! It’s my fault!”

“If I say we’re both at fault, will you be happy with that?”

“No!”

Linhardt was starting to look exasperated. Well, good! That’s what he got for being so—so confusing! And frustrating! And difficult! “Caspar, calm down,” he said.

“I’m not gonna calm down!” Caspar burst out. “You’re not making sense! You keep sending all these mixed messages, and—I don’t know what you want from me! I thought you were never gonna want to talk to me again, and now you’re apologizing? And before, you couldn’t decide if you wanted me sleeping in your bed or if you wanted nothing to do with me! What’s your _problem_, Linhardt?”

Linhardt’s hands fell to his lap, where they curled loosely into fists. “I was afraid you would die,” he said, eventually, quietly.

“Of course I could die! We’re at war!” Caspar practically shouted.

“No, you don’t—“ Linhardt broke off, gritting his teeth. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me!”

“The beginning of the fourth year. You stopped writing me.”

Caspar remembered. He’d been sending Linhardt letters, during their time apart, but he’d been near-fatally injured in a battle on the plains of Faergus, and hadn’t been able to send anything for nearly half a year. “Yeah, so? I had a close call. But I was fine! I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know that!” Linhardt said, sounding really, truly angry since the first time since...Caspar didn’t even know since when. “I had no idea! I thought you were dead. For _weeks_.” His voice broke on the last word.

“Oh,” said Caspar, startled out of his own anger. “I...I didn’t think of that. I guess I just—I don’t know. I didn’t think you cared that much.”

Linhardt’s eyes like burned like coals. “You didn’t _think_? Are you truly that dense? You were my best friend!”

“You were mine too!” he shot back, feeling just as lost and broken-hearted as he had back then, when he was just a kid, lost and abandoned in the face of the encroaching war, and okay, so maybe he’d never really stopped being that kid, somewhere deep down inside. “But you didn’t come with me.”

“I wanted to,” said Linhardt. He was looking off into the darkness, regret clouding his features. “But I was scared.”

Hesitantly, carefully, slowly, Caspar reached out to put his hand over Linhardt’s. “So was I,” he said.

Linhardt turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through Caspar’s. He laughed again, unhappily. “Utterly ridiculous, isn’t it.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Caspar. “We’re both still here.”

“Yes,” said Linhardt. “We are.”

“Um, hey...” said Caspar, suddenly nervous. “C-can I...kiss you again?”

“_Must_ you insist on being so unromantic about it?” said Linhardt.

“Hey! Look, I just—I wanna be sure you’re okay, and I haven’t really—I’m not good with these kinds of things, so—“ 

“Caspar,” said Linhardt, and he was nervous too, Caspar saw now. “Kiss me.”

So Caspar did. It was a little clumsy, overeager on his part, but Linhardt kissed him back, and his lips were the sweetest thing Caspar had ever tasted.

After, Linhardt leaned his forehead against Caspar’s and closed his eyes. “I never would have thought...”

“What, that we’d get here?” said Caspar, lacing his fingers through Linhardt’s. “Yeah, me neither.”

“I loved you for so long,” said Linhardt.

_Since when?_ Caspar wanted to demand, but he was still trying to process everything else, so all he managed was, “Y-you did?”

“Yes,” was all Linhardt replied.

“Guess I am pretty dense,” said Caspar. “I couldn’t tell.”

Linhardt’s fingers tightened on his. “You’re not. Well, you are, but...it’s not that. I’ve treated you terribly, all this time. I was just so afraid of losing you, I didn’t want to...have you, in the first place.”

Caspar chuckled softly. “Joke’s on you,” he said. “You had me all along.”

“I’m sorry,” said Linhardt, sounding so genuinely remorseful that Caspar drew back from him, and with his free hand he lifted Linhardt’s chin so he could look him in the face properly.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, too. That I scared you.”

Linhardt was frowning, but just the way he leaned into Caspar’s touch was just—amazing, soothing an ache buried deep inside him. That Linhardt wanted him there. “You might still die,” Linhardt said.

“No way,” said Caspar, with confidence. “I’m unkillable.”

“That’s not true,” said Linhardt. “You’re reckless, you almost get yourself killed a dozen times a battle, you—“

“Yeah,” interrupted Caspar, “But you’re always there to have my back.”

“You can’t count on that,” argued Linhardt. “I’m—you _know_ me, I can’t be depended on, and what if I didn’t notice, or—I’ve lost track of you before, you nearly died!”

“But you found me,” said Caspar. “And I’m still here, right?”

Linhardt just looked at him, uncertainty clouding his gaze.

Caspar sighed. “Okay, c’mere,” he said, pulling Linhardt towards him, wrapping his arms around him in an embrace. “I promise I won’t die.”

“You can’t promise that,” said Linhardt, hands clutching in the fabric of Caspar’s shirt.

“Lin, I...I just need you to trust me. Just a little. Okay? I won’t die. No matter what. So, please, just...don’t shut me out again. I really—“ his voice caught, and he had to stop and start again. “I really need you.”

“How can you say that? All you’ve done is look after me, and all _I’ve_ done is push you away.”

“Lin, you’ve been looking after me since we were kids, and I was a _mess_. I think it kinda evens out.”

Linhardt was quiet for a moment, then said, “...When you put it that way, I suppose it does.”

“Hey, you’re not supposed to agree with me that quickly,” said Caspar.

“Then you shouldn’t have said it in the first place.”

Caspar turned his face into Linhardt’s hair, holding him close, breathing in the scent of him. “I love you,” he said.

Linhardt’s breath hitched. “I...love you too,” he said, then a moment later, “But do you think we could head back to camp? The ambiance of a dark forest leaves something to be desired. And I’m cold.”

“Huh? Oh!” Caspar had almost managed to forget where they were. “Y-yeah. Of course.” He extricated himself from Linhardt before climbing to his feet, ignoring the remnant aches from his tumble. He offered his hand to Linhardt. “C’mon. Let’s go back together.”

Linhardt looked at his hand, then up to his face. “Together,” he echoed, and he placed his hand in Caspar’s to be pulled to his feet.

Caspar kept ahold of his hand when he was upright, letting their joined hands swing between them as he grinned back. He felt all fired up suddenly, like he could take on the entire Adrestian army all by himself—now that was more like it. “All right! Now let’s get back there and get some sleep so we’re ready for tomorrow.”

Linhardt lit a magic light as Caspar led the way—luckily, the slope of the ravine wasn’t as steep as it had seemed on the way down, but they had to pick their way up carefully. “I have to admit, I never pictured it going like this,” said Linhardt.

“Pictured what?”

“...This. Us,” said Linhardt, unhelpfully.

“You _pictured_ us?” said Caspar.

Linhardt rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Yes. Many times. Despite my best efforts.”

“Wh—how long did you know?” Caspar demanded.

“Since we were in school.”

“What?!” Caspar yelped, flustered. “You never said anything!”

“I thought it would be more trouble than it was worth,” said Linhardt.

“Ugh, of course you did,” Caspar grumbled. “When, though?”

“If you really need to know...” Linhardt looked a little embarrassed himself, now. “Do you remember that time in Wyvern Moon you came to my room because you were frightened of a thunderstorm?”

Caspar made a face. “Do you have to remind me of that? Yeah, I remember.”

“I let you sleep in my bed,” said Linhardt, a blush creeping onto his face. “I realized it then.”

“Oh,” said Caspar, then, “_Oh_. Wait—is that why—“ he remembered now, waking up with Linhardt beside him, and he’d thought _huh, that was odd_, but it didn’t really feel _bad_, he’d kinda liked it, actually, the way Linhardt was wrapped around his arm was kinda cute, but he hadn’t read anything into it then, or he hadn’t wanted to, at least. “You were all cuddled up to me! I thought you just were too lazy to wake me up!”

“Your lack of imagination is appalling,” said Linhardt dryly, but his cheeks were still a little red. “Well, when did you realize it, then?”

“When I was writing that last letter to you,” he said. “It just kinda hit me. But you know, I think I must’ve loved you forever.”

Linhardt didn’t reply to this, so Caspar glanced at him. His blush had returned in full force. “I can’t believe how much time I spent pining over such a ridiculous man,” he muttered.

Caspar felt warmth bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of him. “Coming from the one who figured it out ages ago and just decided not to say anything.”

They had made it to the top of the ravine by now, and Caspar pulled Linhardt up to level ground with him. Linhardt looked him over critically, reaching up to pull a twig out of Caspar’s hair. Then he yawned. “I have to say...that was certainly more than enough excitement for one night. Now I’m absolutely ready to sleep. For the next year, if possible, but alas, we have a prior obligation.”

“You say that like it’s not the end of the war we’ve been fighting for _five whole years._”

“It’s all a matter of perspective,” said Linhardt. He set off for the camp, and Caspar followed.

“Hey, Linhardt...” said Caspar, “What are you going to do when the war’s over?” Finally, he’d gotten around to the actual question he’d been meaning to ask all this time. It surprised him how easily it came out, given how heavy it had felt all this time, ever since they met again.

“Well...I suppose that depends,” said Linhardt, slowly. “What are _you_ intending to do?”

“Me? Oh, uh...I don’t know, I didn’t have any big plans. I was going to keep traveling, I guess. I thought it’d be kind of nice to see everything when it’s—you know. Peaceful. But I could do whatever! It’s no problem.”

“Traveling,” said Linhardt thoughtfully. “Well, I could do worse. Travel it is, then.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, it’d be a big hassle, so it might not be—huh?”

Linhardt sighed in exasperation. “You never _listen_ to people, Caspar. Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

“Aw, come on,” said Caspar, a grin working its way onto his face as Linhardt’s acceptance filtered through. “You know you love it.”

“And I’m already starting to regret it,” said Linhardt, but Caspar just laughed.

“We could go anywhere,” he said. “The world’s so...big. Even just Fodlan is huge.”

“You must already have seen much of it, those five years,” said Linhardt, and something in his tone made Caspar examine his face; Linhardt was looking straight ahead, mouth twisted down at the corners. Caspar reached out and took his hand again, squeezing it encouragingly.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “But I always wished you were there, too.”

Linhardt shook his head. “I suppose you’ll want to be dragging me all over the continent every which way,” he said. “I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.”

“Nah,” said Caspar. “We can take our time. I’ll find you some nice meadows to nap in.” He couldn’t stop smiling, his heart feeling lighter than it had in—he couldn’t remember how long. Maybe never. Linhardt wanted to be with him. He wanted to go places with him, to see the world, and Caspar had never even thought this was a possible future for him, and yet here they were.

Linhardt smiled back at him now, tentative, but warm. “I’d like that,” he said.

They were just at the edge of camp now, and Caspar’s heart stuttered as he realized he might have to part ways with Linhardt. At least for tonight. But he didn’t want to let Linhardt out of his sight, in case—he didn’t know. In case Linhardt changed his mind, or something. As if by letting him go now, he’d be losing him all over again. Which was obviously crazy, or it should have been, but. _But_. He was still just a little bit...well, he wouldn’t say _scared_, but it was kind of hard to just let everything he’d been carrying for all these months—all these _years_—go just like that.

“You’re squeezing my hand rather tightly,” Linhardt observed, as they neared the tents.

“Y-yeah?” he said, with a nervous chuckle.

Linhardt regarded him suspiciously. “Is something the matter?”

“Wh—no, nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine. Perfect. Couldn’t be better.”

“You could at least do me the courtesy of being even slightly believable when you say that,” said Linhardt.

“Well, _sorry_,” said Caspar. They had slowed to a stop now, outside their tents, but Caspar found he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go of Linhardt’s hand. _Can you come sleep in my tent?_ he wanted to say, but what if it would be asking for too much? They’d shared a bed before, sure, but—they never spoke of it, it didn’t have any meaning attached, and now—

Linhardt sighed. “Tell me what it is,” he said, and he must have seen the tense set of Caspar’s shoulders, or the worry in his eyes, because then he took Caspar’s other hand so he was holding both of them, and said more gently, “Please.”

Caspar swallowed. “Can you—“ he started, then tried again, “Do you want to...” Why was this so difficult? “You could sleep in my tent tonight, if you want to,” he said finally, all in a rush.

“Ah,” said Linhardt, taken aback. “Well.” He cleared his throat a little. “Yes. I could. Do that.”

“You don’t have to,” said Caspar quickly.

“I...I might like that,” said Linhardt, but he wasn’t looking straight at Caspar, and his hesitation was agonizing. “But...I’m not sure I could...that I’d be ready for anything...s-strenuous.”

It was maybe the first time Caspar had ever heard him stammer, or sound so...well, uncertain, of anything. Caspar’s heart was full to bursting with love, all of a sudden, and he leaned in to kiss him, just gently, on the lips. “Hey,” he said quietly. “We don’t have to do anything like that. It’s okay.”

“I know I did...something before, when I was drinking, but—what if I can’t give you what you want? As much as you want? Ever?” he said, anxious still.

Caspar laughed a little. “Lin, all I ever wanted was you. I couldn’t really ask for more than that.”

“You say that now,” said Linhardt.

“I’ll say it forever. I mean, sure, I’d really like...that stuff...with you,” he could feel his face warming again, “But you don’t owe me anything. I just want to be with you. However you want me.”

“You’re an impossible fool,” muttered Linhardt, but he seemed less tense than he had a moment ago.

“Yeah, probably,” agreed Caspar.

“I’ll sleep in your tent,” said Linhardt. “But you had better not wake me when you get up at whatever miserable hour you were planning to rise.”

“Like I could,” said Caspar. “You sleep like you’re dead.”

“Well, death will happen to all of us someday, so really, if you think about it, it’s only sensible to practice.”

Caspar rolled his eyes, leading Linhardt into his tent. It was small and dark inside, barely enough room for the two of them. “Okay, but I’m not letting you sleep through the rallies. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. _The_ big day.” 

They were side by side on the narrow bedroll, Caspar shucking off the clothing he’d thrown on over his bedclothes earlier, and as an afterthought, handing Linhardt a more comfortable shirt to sleep in, after he’d shed his robe. Then they settled in, laying side by side. It felt good. It felt...right.

“Caspar,” whispered Linhardt, legs tangled in Caspar’s, head tucked against his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“You can’t die tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” he said. “I think I love you too much.”

“I’m holding you to that,” said Linhardt.

“And you really mean it? That you want to come traveling with me?”

“Somebody has to keep you out of trouble, I suppose.”

“You don’t have to put it _that_ way,” said Caspar.

“And also I love you,” said Linhardt.

And Caspar smiled, and closed his eyes, holding Linhardt close, and for the first time since the very beginning of the war, five years ago, everything felt like it was going to be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I referenced some things here that happened in some of my earlier fics in this series, in case that was confusing for anybody.
> 
> Anyway look at these boys! I'm so proud of them! But it sure took them long enough.  
...Not that all of their problems are going to be solved instantly but I'm gonna let them have this.
> 
> Thanks for reading, gang! I'd love to hear how you feel about everything :D  
More to come, stay tuned!


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